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Tunnel Vision
Every evening I enter this tunnel called winter,
The new light at each day's end egging me on.
It is not a long drive to the school,
As if someone, or something has predetermined
The exact amount of time, and coordinated it
With the last stretch of musk melon sky
That highlights the barren hulks of trees
Surrounding the campus where shadows
Of students move in quick silence against
The night's chill. This is how the season
Will pass- Each month's weather splattered
On the walls of winter like so much graffiti,
A collage of thaws and cold snaps, snowfall,
And rain, unbearably bright days too frigid
For fun, windy nights with too many stars,
And a glowing monster of a moon, too close
To make use of the new Christmas telescope.
Until suddenly, on a late afternoon in April,
The lingering light at the end of the tunnel
Becomes a tunnel itself, an eternal portal
Through which all things must enter,
If this is why the sun returns to us again,
And our hands push forward an hour of time
With the swift and easy motion of a wing,
As if small shapes and sounds depended on it.
© Dale A. Edmands
Please visit this author's personal web pages:
Kookamonga Square,
(http://www.kookamongasquare.com/)
Poetry Hall, and
Prother's Pages
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Seeds
Waiting for spring,
You sit window-watching
The rain darken
Your new garden earth.
Inside this grey room,
Surrounded by Forsythia,
You leaf through packets
Of Zinnia and Marigold.
While inside you,
Still yet another seed,
Some nine months grown,
Stirs in its own wet world,
Unaware of seasons,
Sensing more your impatience.
© Dale A. Edmands
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Presenting the work of Dale Edmands: